


It's Always 1895

by icantsumupmyfandomsinonename



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, But i had to tag, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates, in case people are sensitive, my lovely loves, my loves, not really major character death, okay so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantsumupmyfandomsinonename/pseuds/icantsumupmyfandomsinonename
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt on http://promptsfordays.tumblr.com/post/138534901295/do-you-have-any-original-reincarnation-au:</p><p>" Person A and Person B were lovers in a past life; B composed a song that they only shared with A and never published. A does not remember ever having a past life until they are walking down the street and hear a homeless person humming /their/ song."</p><p>(Also, I know that the title is cliche. Shoot me.)<br/>((ALSO I realized I'm only 102 words away from being actually 1895. Ah well. I can't help it. The muse has finished with me))</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Always 1895

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynarcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynarcher/gifts).



> Translation into Chinese by LoveBBCSH here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6041734
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments, you have no idea how happy it makes me to know that this work means something to other people, and not just me. <3

They had met completely by accident. 

 

 

Captain John H. Watson had been a doctor during the second Anglo-Afghan war, and even though he had been injured, he managed to stick it out until his company returned to England. He returned with a medal and a cane for his limp. 

He set himself up a small practice, and had a steady income, but he was bored with his life. He missed the war. He missed the action. Helping old Mrs. Kimberly with her arthritic tendencies was nothing on the excitement of the war. Of the battles. The rush of his blood at the sound of a gunshot. He needed more. 

And he got more by way of one Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.  

He met Holmes in the morgue of St. Bartholomew's hospital. He had been visiting an old friend who was now teaching in the very school he himself had learned his trade, and he mentioned to Stamford that he was looking to move to a better neighborhood, since his business had improved in the recent months. 

Stamford smiled and introduced him to Holmes, who rattled off practically Watson's whole life story after just a glance. 

It had been a rush. 

Looking at that man, standing over a corpse, his hair slightly mussed... Speaking to him, with that deep, baritone voice. 

Even in the dark of the morgue, he knew he was in trouble. 

Of course, he couldn't say no to moving in with the man. 

-

"Holmes." 

The detective was standing by the window, staring out at the crowd. 

"Holmes!" Watson gripped his hands tightly, glaring at his friend. "Will you _l_ _ook at me_ , please?" 

"I am busy, Watson." 

"Of course you are." He snapped. "But for once, I will tear your energies away from the most _magnetic_  walkway in front of 221B to discuss the fact that you have _spoiled my suit_." 

"I would not call that a suit." Holmes muttered under his breath. 

"What?" He stared the taller man down. 

"I said," Holmes said firmly, looking up at him. "The 'suit' that you are referring to is barely proper enough for a dinner with _Gladstone_ , let alone a woman you are attempting to _woo_." He spat out the last word as if it were detestable. 

"My mode of dress is no business of yours." Watson growled. "I would thank you to keep your experiments limited to your closet. If you would like to walk around all of London in a mere sheet, go ahead. But do not impose that on me." 

-

Watson was sitting in his chair in the sitting room, reading the paper. Gladstone was at his feet, and snoring as he tended to. 

Holmes, meanwhile, was standing by the window and fiddling with his violin, playing little snippets of pieces in one big Frankenstein of a piece. 

Watson was doing his best not to react, since he knew that this was how Holmes thought best. Though it definitely could grate on the nerves. After nearly a half hour, he set down his paper. "Would you _please_  settle on one piece?" 

Holmes finished with a flourish. "Any requests?" 

The doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Anything soft. the squealing was giving me a headache." 

Holmes chuckled softly and started playing something slow and soothing. 

Watson watched him, enthralled. Holmes was like a storm. Most times, it was hectic and frantic with the man. But sometimes, rarely, one would stumble upon moments like this. The eye of the storm. The calm and peaceful yet energy-laden moments. 

"You have the look of a lovesick puppy." Holmes said, stopping to play. "Who are you thinking about?" 

Watson flushed deeply and pushed himself to his feet. "I don't know what you're talking about.' 

"Oh, don't lie to me, Watson. I know you far too well. Which of your conquests were you dreaming about?" 

"I wasn't!" He snapped. "Stop pushing at it. I'm going to bed." 

-

"Good morning, Holmes." Watson grinned at the bleary-eyed detective. "You seem to have missed out on some hours last night." 

"Shut up, John." 

The doctor pursed his lips at that. Holmes had never called him by his first name. It was Watson or something even more formal than that. 

"I'll stop pushing the issue when you start taking care of yourself, _Sherlock_. As your doctor-" 

"What did you call me?" 

"Sherlock." He said simply. "In response to your calling me John." 

"I did not." He insisted. 

"You did." He said firmly. "You very clearly did. Now, as I was saying-" 

"I only ever call you Watson." 

"Yes, obviously not when you're half-asleep. At least do me the favor of eating a proper breakfast, Holmes?" 

-

"To be honest, I don't mind the violin as much as I sometimes act like I do." 

Holmes smiled from his seat in his chair, working on the strings of his violin with resin. "I know that, Watson." 

"I only mind when you make it sound like a dying cat." 

Holmes's face soured. "That is a very rare occurrence." 

"If you say so. Play me something?" 

-

"Here. You need to drink this." 

"Watson?" Holmes's head felt like it was split in two. "What happened?" 

"You've been injured. I need you to drink this, Sherlock." 

He felt himself being lifted up a bit and a glass of water put to his lips. He swallowed a few mouthfuls and the pill that Doctor Watson gave him. 

"There you go." 

As he was falling back to sleep, he felt a soft peck on his forehead and a squeeze of his hand. 

-

"You kissed me." 

Watson stiffened in his spot near his recuperating friend's bedside. "I'm sorry?" 

"You kissed me, Watson." 

"You were unconscious." 

Holmes smiled at him, his exhaustion not dimming his mind. "You kissed me." 

It took a few moments before Watson sighed. "I did." 

-

It was a few weeks before the conversation was breached again. 

"It's wrong." 

"I don't give a damn about what's wrong. I know what I want." 

"Holmes, please. We both have reputations to uphold. I care about you greatly, but-" 

Holmes glared at Watson. "But? I don't see anything to change that. I care about you. You care about me. Why should we not be together?" 

"Because of society, you daft man. If people got wind... our lives would be ruined. I'd be lucky to be allowed to continue practicing, let alone on civilized people." 

"It's ridiculous." 

"I know." 

-

It was only two days before they shared a bed. Watson was completely blissed out, and Holmes was gloating like an idiot. Watson kissed him to shut him up. 

-

Watson kept his room upstairs, and they continued taking clients as usual. They kept up the front of being eligible bachelors, while in reality they were both in a very committed relationship. 

They took advantage of out-of-london cases to take vacations together, though they always had to be careful to keep their attentions to each other restricted to inside their rooms. But they got by. 

Holmes, it turned out, was ridiculously romantic. A year after the first time they slept together, Watson found a piece of sheet music with a little scribble on the top that looked like it said "John". The next day, he asked Holmes to play it for him. 

It was the most beautiful piece Watson had ever heard, and after that, he had Holmes play for him every night. 

-

They retired to the countryside just after Watson's first white hairs made themselves known. 

Doctor Watson kept up the house, mostly, while Holmes started tending bees. 

Their lives were completely blissful. 

Until Holmes got sick. Influenza. It had been covert for longer than it should, and by the time they caught it, it was too late for anything Watson could do for him. All he could do was ease his way. 

After Holmes passed, Watson maintained their country house and the bees, doing everything as he knew Holmes would. He lived ten more years before a heart attack took him. 

Overall, they had good lives together, for the time they were in.  

* * *

 

Captain John Hamish Watson had been a doctor during the war in Afghanistan, and did his best to continue working the field after getting shot, but he was forced home due to his hand tremor. No one needed an invalided surgeon. 

He headed up the stairs from the underground, hearing strains of violin waft down from street level. That was a horribly beautiful song. He got to street level and his eyes fell on the performer. Clearly homeless. But oh, so handsome. He stood there, mesmerized with the performance. He listened for a few minutes before pulling out a few pounds and dropping it in the artist's violin case and continuing on his way. 

-

Sherlock Holmes knew he was a man out of his time. Somehow, he remembered who he had been. How he had lived. He missed his Watson. So much... 

He lived through his early childhood forcing himself to slow down, but once he reached his teens, he couldn't anymore. He missed Watson. He _needed_  his other half. He turned to drugs to cope. His parents tried to keep him. To help him. But he pushed them away. He preferred to live on the street than live a 'happy' life, deluding himself that he could live without Watson. He preferred to shove the thoughts away with the cocaine and Heroin. 

For all of the differences of the eras, he must say that he preferred the 1800s for the availability of his poison of choice. Though the 21st century was certainly enjoyable for the technology it offered. 

-

John passed the violinist every day, and each day he stopped to listen. He felt a certain pull to the dark-haired violinist. 

-

Sherlock rarely looked up when he was playing, but he did one day, and his eyes fell on a blond man watching him. He missed a note, his violin screeching. Watson. His Watson. Watson was here. 

Oh. 

But he didn't know him.

Oh god, that was the worst stab in the chest. There was his love. His life. And his face was completely blank. He didn't _know_  him. 

Sherlock ducked his head and quickly packed up, practically running from the blond man. 

-

John was upset to find that the violinist wasn't on the street-corner for nearly a week. 

It was late Tuesday evening when he climbed the stairs and he heard the sweet sounds of the strings again. 

But this was different. 

The song was heart-wrenching. The song felt... familiar, too. 

He got to the top of the stairs and he saw the tall man. His eyes locked with the man's and all of a sudden he was hit with a sack of bricks. 

"Holmes." He whispered.


End file.
